


Black Sheep

by hgdoghouse



Category: The Professionals
Genre: M/M, set after the episode 'It's Only a Beautiful Picture'
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-12
Updated: 2011-11-12
Packaged: 2017-10-25 23:48:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/276199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hgdoghouse/pseuds/hgdoghouse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Written October 1984</p><p>Reprinted in ‘HG Collected 1'</p></blockquote>





	Black Sheep

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sammie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sammie/gifts).



One arm curved around his aching gut Doyle sat up with caution, scarlet with laughter. His breath still catching, he slid down from the open doorway of the small plane he had sabotaged with such success. It would be a while before it would be airborne again and then only under new ownership, he thought with satisfaction. He'd never had any time for the so-called 'Gentlemen of Crime', particularly when they took to murdering nightwatchmen. But the job was over and they were free to go home.

Wiping his face with his hand, he pulled down his rumpled sweatshirt and turned, ready to face the world and his indignant partner. There were times when he wished he carried a camera around with him.

No Bodie.

He gave another involuntary splutter of laughter, reliving the incredulous expression on Bodie's face when he had been led, protesting, away. Teach him to have a shifty look, Doyle thought with glee.

A crest on the side of the plane caught his eye, sobering him as he massaged assorted tender spots about his person. They'd been lucky the cavalry had arrived when it did, the odds stacked against them.

And Bodie hadn't exactly helped matters, he thought, aggrieved afresh as he remembered how Bodie had stood rooted to the spot, like some bloody turnip. Frowning, Doyle kicked out at a strut of the plane. It wasn't until he'd held that blazing rag that he'd realized he risked frying his partner along with the other bastards. Nasty. Very.

It wasn't like Bodie to be so slow on the uptake. It must've been that bloody dog of Armitage's that had shaken him up, Doyle decided, knowing his partner's experiences with man's best friend were of the variety that would make even Barbara Woodhouse think twice.

Fastidious as a cat, Doyle picked his way through the reeking streams of petrol. The next time they encountered a second Hound of the Baskervilles he'd make sure he was the one who took it on. He'd never had rabies.

It couldn't hurt to start carrying some dog biscuits around in the car though; in the absence of any dogs they'd always come in handy to feed Bodie when he got hungry on a stake out.

Recovered enough to take an interest in his surroundings, Doyle stretched, then grimaced. Bloody Armitage. The sooner they were back in London, where they belonged, the better. The small airfield seemed remarkably peaceful now, deserted except for a lone car and some birds in the distance - sadly only the feathered variety.

There was no sign of Bodie.

Deciding that his better half was bound to be obstructing the course of justice in the warehouse, Doyle made for the car on the grounds that it was nearer and he was tired. He pulled a face when he failed to leave the stench of petrol fumes behind him. It was only then that he realized he was liberally splashed with the stuff, the soft leather of his boots soggy and discoloured.

Marvellous, he thought with gloom, trying to avoid breathing more than was necessary. He'd only bought them three weeks ago. Cowley would never pass their replacement on expenses - a pair of plimsolls maybe. Making a mental note to try anyway, he tucked one hand in the back pocket of his jeans, flexed a spine stiff from cat-napping in the car and ambled over to the car. Leaning down, he peered into the open door.

"Afternoon. Seen my partner anywhere around?"

Detective-Sergeant Harris looked up from the wad of invoices he had been rifling through. His look of polite enquiry changed to a guarded lack of welcome when he placed the unshaven face busy invading his personal space.

"You've stopped laughing then," he remarked, unnecessarily. "What partner?"

Doyle had grown accustomed to his lack of popularity over the thirteen days of his secondment, rightly attributing it to the abrasive persona he had assumed so wholeheartedly.

"My partner, Bodie," he explained, with unusual patience. "Ralston was taking him away last time I looked. And while I can see that Bodie would be a popular little item - novelty value and al - I'd like him back to play with myself now."

Or he can play with me, thought Doyle wistfully. Thirteen sodding days with no more contact than the occasional, very public pint. Funny, he hadn't expected to miss Bodie - well, not as much as he had, or for so many stupid reasons.

Harris' expression began to brighten. "Dark haired bloke in a torn shirt, is he?"

Feeling no sense of foreboding, Doyle offered an encouraging beam. "That's him."

"Oh, too bad. If only we'd known," mourned Harris, with suspect sorrow. "The Inspector took him in for questioning."

Straightening in a hurry when he heard the news, Doyle caught his head on the edge of the car roof and bit his tongue.

Harris' smile broadened.

"What the hell did Ralston go and do that for?" demanded Doyle.

"I didn't ask him. We didn't know you had a partner, you see. In fact we didn't know you weren't some bloody layabout until London saw fit to mention it to us. About an hour ago, that would be."

"And not taking too kindly to our little deception, Ralston decided revenge would be sweet," recognised Doyle, understanding the politics behind Ralston's actions perfectly.

"That's one way of putting it."

"It's the only way," retorted Doyle, his eyes cold now. "Some people might look on that as a case of Ralston abusing a position of trust. It won't have occurred to him that Bodie could have been hurt in that fight, or that we're needed urgently in Town?"

Unruffled by the abrasive edge in Doyle's voice, Harris gave him an untroubled smile.

" _If _the man being detained proves to be your partner and _if _he's injured then of course he'll receive the appropriate medical care. Inspector Ralston does everything by the book."____

Slumped against the open car door, to the detriment of the hinges, Doyle gave the grass beneath his feet a sour look. "That must make life interesting for his missus."

Bodie wasn't going to see the funny side of this. Come to that, nor did he. Looking up, abrupt and unsmiling, Doyle fixed the older man with an unblinking stare.

"Well, if that's what Ralston had planned you can take me back to the station and watch me get Bodie out - by the same book that got him inside."

His habitual calm ruffled by that certainty, Harris returned Doyle's gaze, then tossed the invoices onto the passenger seat. "Oh, I will, will I?" His tone was deceptively mild.

Having already realised he was venting his irritation on the wrong man Doyle gave an apologetic shrug. Harris was a decent enough bloke and from the little he had seen of him, a good copper. So was Ralston, the tight-arsed bastard. Honesty compelled Doyle to concede that the Inspector hadn't lacked provocation; he had gone over the top in his assigned role of black sheep, to the point where he made even Cowley's report seem glowing in comparison.

"Well it looks like I'm going to need some help from somewhere. It would be nice if it came from you. Ralston's really pissed off with me, isn't he?" Doyle added, by way of a peace offering.

Unswayed by the grin which accompanied it, Harris gave a grunt of confirmation, less inclined to trust this persona than the one Doyle had been using. He'd heard some funny rumours about CI5.

"Are you surprised? Ralston's got enough on his plate without some cocky little sod from London coming down to tell us hayseeds what an easy life we've got of it. He was bloody near gibbering when he heard you were coming and you've done his ulcer no good at all since you've been here."

"Ulcer? Well that explains why he's such a cheerless bastard," Doyle conceded.

Pulling out a packet of cigarettes Harris was about to offer them to Doyle when he smelt the petrol reek emanating from him and put them back in his pocket with a resigned sigh. He disinterred a battered packet of polos by way of substitution.

"Ralston goes by the book, you say?" Doyle took the proffered mint with a nod of thanks. "He's never planning on keeping Bodie in the full twenty-four hours?" he added, sucking on his mint with noisy appreciation.

Harris almost swallowed his whole, his air of sleepy unconcern vanishing. "Most people don't realise we have the - Don't tell me you really are a copper?"

"Ex," confirmed Doyle economically, his sharp teeth snapping the mint in half.

"Ah, that would account for it."

Harris' grin at Doyle's questioning look took years from his age. "Who else but a copper would have known how to be so bloody aggravating? You did a great job."

"Wasn't bad, was I?" agreed Doyle, crunching pleasurably. "I couldn't resist the temptation. Any time I felt myself running short of inspiration I only had to think of my first sergeant. But it's not a path I'd recommend if you're bucking for promotion."

"Fat bloody chance. You did the best thing moving on. What rank are you now?"

"We don't have rank in CI5." Doyle shook his head at Harris' envious sigh. "Nah, it just means that my boss- gives everyone an equal rollicking. Cowley's not going to appreciate this development at all," he added sadly. "And he's bound to blame me."

"Well it was your fault - indirectly."

"Cheers." Doyle gave his nose a rueful rub, then conceded his potential source of grief. "My partner isn't goin' to be too thrilled at being made the scapegoat for this either."

"It's only for one night," offered Harris by way of consolation. "He can look on it as broadening his education."

An image of Bodie, unsmiling and unamused, slid through Doyle's mind.

"You must be joking. He's got more 'education' than I can handle as it is. Besides, a night in the cells will be no novelty to him. I hope the food in your nick is halfway decent, that might help—a little. He's going to kill me when he gets out," Doyle added, trying to be philosophical about the prospect before him.

"A hard man, is he?" asked Harris, a trace of sympathy in his manner by this time. However obnoxious he might be, Doyle had been one of them. Still was, in a manner of speaking.

Hard? thought Doyle hazily. Yeah, Bodie could be that. And tough and tender and everything in between.

"Bodie's OK," he said. A glimmer of hope appeared on an otherwise gloomy horizon. "It might not come to that. I could always try sweet-talking Ralston." It had the sound of a question, even to himself.

Harris shook his head. "Save your breath. He's always been a humourless sod. We keep hoping he'll be eligible for early retirement," he added, with a frankness which revealed that Doyle had, as far as he was concerned, been accepted into the fraternity of the chosen few.

Unconscious of the honour, Doyle was scratching his stomach. "Understandable, but I'll have to give it a try. I've got no other option. Besides, I've got nothing but my temper to lose."

Opening his mouth in warning, Harris gave him a sudden shrewd glance and shook his head. "You won't." It occurred to him that it was easy to be taken in by a surface show; this one revealed only what he wanted - to a stranger, at least.

"No," agreed Doyle, "I don't suppose I will. Bugger," he added without heat. "I thought we could get away today. I hate the countryside."

"What, it's a great place for a holiday but you wouldn't want to live here? You should give it a try; it's not so bad."

"Misery loves company?" Doyle suggested, grinning.

"That's what I used to think, till I moved down here," conceded Harris amiably. "But it's OK. It suits me and the family anyway." He emerged from the front seat to stand beside Doyle. "It's about time I went to see what treasures my lot have turned up, and I could use a cigarette. Being close to you is like standing next to an open pump. You want to watch out with all that petrol on you." He paused then, eyeing the smaller man. "Would you have fired that plane?"

Remembering Bodie's expression and body language, Doyle's expression was grim and uncompromising. "You could count on it if Bodie hadn't been on his two feet." He shrugged himself free of what might have been. "But they didn't make that mistake. Sangster had a nice little number going on here. His being nicked is going to muck up the Chief Constable's game of golf though."

"Yeah." Harris looked about as distressed as Doyle at the thought. "Right under our noses, the bastard. Best of luck with Ralston."

"Thanks."

"Listen, if you don't have any joy with him - and I can't see it myself - the lads are having a celebration starting off at the Sangster Arms, 8.30. Stag night. You're welcome to join us, help pass your last night here."

In the absence of any official police accommodation during his short-lived secondment Doyle had a one-room hovel and a landlady who made George Cowley seem benign. Hoping he would be back in London by then, with Bodie, he nodded.

"Great. If you're sure I won't put the mockers on things?"

"It would take more than CI5 to do that," replied Harris cheerfully. "Especially since we've had a chance to work on the duty roster. Trust me, we're not all like PC Gordon. And there's bugger all else to do. Unless you know where to go, the village must seem a bit - "

" - dead?" suggested Doyle, straight-faced.

Harris laughed. "Wait until tonight. You might change your mind."

"It's a deal, but - and don't take this the wrong way - I hope we're long gone by then."

"Married are you, or got someone waiting up in Town?"

His expression a pleasing blank, Doyle nodded. "I hope so."

Harris gave him a look of interest. "Like that, is it? She'll come round. It took my wife a while to get used to the funny hours and broken dates."

"Yeah, of course." Wishing it was quite that simple, Doyle thrust his growing doubts as to what Bodie - or himself, come to that - actually wanted, to one side. "OK, great. If I've got Bodie to face after he's had a night in the cells I'll need all the cheer I can get. Besides, I left all me good books at home."

"Where are you staying? I'll pick you up."

Harris winced when he heard the address. "Oh, bad luck. Though it explains why you're so eager to be off. Look, here's my number in case you do manage to spring your partner. Right, I'll see you later then. Are you all right for transport back to the station?"

"Fine," said Doyle, just managing to slide the piece of paper into a back pocket. "Bodie's car is in the next field."

It was with no surprise that Doyle found his meeting with Detective Inspector Ralston proceeding exactly as Harris had predicted. Prepared for righteous disapproval, Doyle's expression did not change throughout, his explanation and apology swiftly buried in Ralston's lengthy and repetitive lecture on the troubles afflicting the younger, irresponsible generation. Blocking off the homily from a man who could be little more than twelve years his senior, Doyle sat in a patient silence, having realised he could not invoke the power of the small print on his ID to free his partner;; the repercussions which could spring from that couldn't be justified.

He hoped Bodie would come to see it in that light.

Learning that his partner would be released at 12.49 the following day, Doyle gained permission to empty his locker and even managed to bid the older man a civil farewell.

By the time he arrived at the front desk, clutching carrier bags of dirty laundry, a radio and a crash helmet, Doyle was simmering quietly. Pausing to take advantage of Ralston's grudging concession, his temper was not improved when the desk sergeant returned with the news that Mr Bodie could find no point in seeing him.

On a very short fuse by this time, Doyle just nodded.

"Thanks for asking. I'll see you tomorrow morning when I come to collect him." And with any luck I'll have mellowed enough not to chuck him through the window, he thought, steaming quietly.

Having filled the boot of Bodie's car with his possessions and run out of reasons to postpone the task any longer, Doyle put a call through to London.

Cowley's response to his news was predictable, and it was with an exceedingly poor grace that he gave Doyle permission to stay on until Bodie should be released. As Doyle had anticipated, the blame was placed squarely on his shoulders - Ralston had wasted no time in voicing his complaints.

With the prospect of a belligerent Bodie and a disapproving Cowley to be faced in the same day, Doyle was more than ready for his night on the town. He had returned to his room to clean up, change and pack his belongings.

By the time he fell into bed, just before dawn, with no coherent memory of his passage there, Doyle had mellowed sufficiently to spare a vague thought for his incarcerated partner. Bodie, he decided, with muzzy affection, had missed a bloody good night out - or in, or - He was asleep before his fledgling feeling of guilt could penetrate his alcoholic haze.

 

oOo

 

The alarm sounded with what Doyle, peering bloodshot and disoriented from over the top of the sheet, could only consider to be unnecessary vigour. Feeling distinctly unwell, he deposited his unwanted blankets on top of it and went back to sleep.

The next time he awoke it was to the steady sound of hammering.

Wincing, his stomach in rebellion, he dragged himself up in bed, discovering in the process some tender spots he didn't remember sporting the day before. Only when he was - more or less - vertical did he appreciate that the noise was the result of his landlady applying a brisk fist to his door.

"For chrissake." His voice no more than a hoarse whisper, Doyle coughed, one hand flying to his head, the other to his lurching stomach. "All right, all right. Come in. The door's not locked." That concession was one of necessity rather than choice.

Mrs Dunne took a 'friendly' interest in her lodgers, to the extent of examining everything not kept under lock and key. Having realised a child of nine would have been able to enter his locked room, Doyle had taken to placing a chair-back under the door handle before he went to bed; last night he had been in no state to coordinate anything, himself least of all.

A tightly curled head appeared around the partially open door, Mrs Dunne obviously not prepared to compromise her reputation.

"You," she began pleasurably, "should be ashamed of yourself."

His red-rimmed eyes closing, Doyle tried to ignore the clarity and volume of her voice while she wasted no time in telling him that after the goings on during the early morning he was not only an unwelcome and undesirable tenant, but a disgrace to the police force.

Wondering hazily what it was he had done, his own memories extending only to the innocuous, Doyle sank back against the pillows and offered the line of least resistance.

Eventually she thought to mention that the station had been ringing him since one o'clock.

Doyle froze.

"What time is it now?" he asked, fearing the worst.

"A quarter to two," he was told with relish. "Due on duty, were you?"

"Oh, bugger," he whispered, appalled.

Transfixed, Mrs Dunne watched in disapproving fascination as the blood-shot apparition launched itself out of bed, almost measured its length and began to drag on the first clothes that came to hand.

"Disgusting," she sniffed to a naked back as, fastening his jeans with one hand and considerable difficulty, Doyle tried to retrieve his forgotten trainers from under the bed. Discovering his briefs and socks too late, he stuffed them into an already full bag and hauled on the crumpled shirt he had worn the previous evening.

"Not bothering to shave then?" she observed, when Doyle hurled his shaver into his wash bag.

Bent over the sink vigorously cleaning his teeth while wishing he were dead, Doyle ignored her. Ablutions over, he grabbed his jacket and helmet, remembering to check he had the keys to his bike and his ID before grabbing up his bag. There seemed to be an inordinate amount of money spilling from his pockets; wondering if he had knocked off a bank, Doyle stared glassily around the room, trying to remember if he had everything.

"You off for good then?" she asked, still blocking the doorway. "They had enough of you at last?"

No one had ever met Mr Dunne. Doyle inclined to the belief that he existed only in his landlady's imagination. Her house smelt of damp and cabbage and disinfectant and she was a dried-up, joyless old bag who had done all she could to make his stay as uncomfortable as possible.

Not much of an existence, he thought, his mind already on his partner. Impulse made him lean forward to give the unpowdered cheek on a level with his own a swift kiss.

"Yes, I'm back to London, love." Then, sliding around her spare frame, he was gone, taking the stairs an unsteady three at a time, leaving her to stare at the Doyle-swept ruin of the room.

The ride to the station proved to be an unpleasant experience, Doyle having to stop twice to be sick.

Telling himself it must have been the scrumpy last night, he morosely plodded up the station steps, knowing that it usually took more than a stag night to leave him feeling this ill. Maybe he'd caught something horrible and Bodie and Cowley could forgive him on his death bed.

Detained at the front desk for the shortest of times, as he hurried out the door again he walked into PC Gordon.

"Sorry," he mumbled automatically, fumbling with his helmet.

"I should think so. We'll be glad to see the back of you and no mistake. Feeling rough, are you? You look terrible," Gordon offered with a ponderous malice.

Slit-eyed because of a pounding headache and his guts cramping as if some giant fist was squeezing them, Doyle resisted the temptation to throw up over Gordon's shoes. "At least I'm alive," he said acidly, giving Gordon's stolid figure a look of contempt.

"Oh. Is that what you call it? We did wonder, especially after the way you carried on last night. We've heard about you fly-boys from London. Having met you I can see it's all true. Oh, are you off? Don't go exceeding the speed limit, will you? It would be a shame to have to book you." Overcome with his own wit Gordon was still standing on the bottom step, smirking, when the bike took off.

Knowing he must still be well above the legal limit, Doyle knew his poor coordination left him with no choice but to crawl along the country lanes. He found his partner sitting in the sunshine outside the Sangster Arms.

Dark and unsmiling, there was nothing welcoming about the face that rose to greet him. With an inward sigh, Doyle cut the ignition and dragged off his helmet.

"Sorry I'm late."

Bodie cast a cold eye over the unshaven figure in front of him, noting the marks of sleeplessness and something else. Doyle had the ability to appear dissolute after a blameless night; today he looked fit to open a whole new category.

"I'm half surprised you got here at all after the night you apparently had. Come on, let's be off. Cowley wants to see us the moment we get back to Town. If you're going to throw up," he continued pleasantly, "do it now,. I don't want to have to stop for you on the motorway."

Beginning to wonder if he had missed an earlier part of the conversation, Doyle ran a hand through the limp tangle of his hair and cast an unconscious glance back at the bike. There was no way was he in a fit state to ride that back to London.

"What about that?"

The admission seemed to take Bodie by surprise, his mouth drawing in with contempt.

"Christ, you are far gone. Wait here." Without further preliminaries he disappeared into the pub, re-emerging five minutes later.

"Give me the keys and your helmet and get ready to leave."

By that time Doyle felt in no state to argue. Handing them over he got obediently into Bodie's car. His guts were still engaged in some volcanic protest, as the bushes behind the car could testify.

When Bodie reappeared by the side of the car, it was with Doyle's forgotten holdall in his hand. He made no reference to his partner's forgetfulness but simply threw the bag onto the back seat. Sliding in behind the wheel he drove off at a speed that made Doyle clench his teeth against another onslaught of nausea.

When, five miles later, Bodie had still said nothing else, Doyle wound the window down as far as it would go and closed his eyes. Mind over matter, he reminded himself.

"I'll be glad to see the back of this place," he remarked, the silence shredding his nerves. "Sorry I couldn't get you out, but Ralston wanted his pound of flesh."

"It's a shame it didn't come from you then, isn't it?"

Studying his partner's set profile, Doyle counted slowly to three. It wasn't often Bodie used this icy rage against him, and he couldn't claim Bodie didn't have cause - but if there was going to be an explosion, he wanted to get it over with, Bodie's anger an effective door that closed him out.

"Many drunks in the cells with you, were there?" he asked.

"No, you're my first. Are you going to throw up again? We'll be on the motorway in another five minutes."

Doyle thought about it. "Probably."

"Great."

The car shuddered to a halt. Only Bodie's outflung arm prevented Doyle from going into the windscreen.

Fourteen days, thought Doyle. But the warmth banding his chest was impersonal. He stared at the pale blue leather covering Bodie's arm and the clenched hand and knew an impulse to uncurl the tense fingers and link them with his own; he resisted it.

Bodie wasn't given to sentimental gestures at the best of times. Besides -

"I'll be back in a minute," he mumbled

Fumbling with the door catch, he lurched out onto the grass verge, almost falling into the ditch. This time the bout of nausea went on for longer, Doyle unable to stop once he had started. The attack left him shivering, balanced unsteadily on his hands and knees, with his eyes and nose running.

There was the soft crunch of footsteps audible above the sound of harsh breathing and distant hiss of the fast-moving traffic on the motorway.

"Oh, charming," said Bodie, without any audible trace of concern. "I suppose you're expecting me to clean you up now?"

"No." Feeling the approach of another spasm, Doyle closed his eyes, fighting it. "Just as well, isn't it?"

The flat lack of emotion in the attenuated voice made Bodie glance sharply down at the averted head. Doyle, his palms supporting his weight, was oblivious, retching helplessly again. Disappearing back to the car Bodie rummaged in the boot.

"Here, take this," he said more gently, when the ugly sounds had finally stopped.

Focussing on the can of lager held out to him, Doyle only just stopped himself from gagging.

"Not right now, thanks."

Bodie made a sound of exasperation. "It was to rinse your mouth out with. Oh, hang on." He disappeared back to the car, reappearing with his own bag. "Here, mouthwash. C'mon," he urged.

After Doyle had weakly spat Listerine over some already wilting dandelions Bodie crouched down. Using a crumpled tee shirt he wiped his partner's clammy face clean with brisk efficiency, then eased him over to a clean area.

Slumped in a boneless huddle, Doyle allowed his jacket and stained tee shirt to be peeled away. The sweat was mopped from his torso before he was eased into a cleanish shirt that smelt of Bodie. His trainers were removed and tossed into the ditch, his spare pair hauled on, Bodie taking the trouble to tied them for him.

Shaking with weakness, Doyle blinked sudden, shaming moisture from his eyes, close to being overset by this matter of fact kindness.

Bodie's expression gave nothing away. "Blow," he commanded, holding soft cotton to Doyle's nose.

Resigned, Doyle blew. Recognising the material, he twitched it from Bodie's hand, gave his nose a final wipe and tossed it after his ruined trainers.

"Was that one of your tee shirts or mine?" he croaked. He lay back on the grass, watching the sky spinning crazily overhead. When he closed his eyes the spinning continued.

"Yours, of course. What the hell were you drinking last night to get into this state?" Bodie demanded, refusing to soften. Doyle had brought this on himself.

"How did you know I'd been drinking?" asked Doyle, his eyes still closed, his skin tone still an unpleasant shade of sallow green.

"PC Gordon," said Bodie, with the same flat lack of expression, his anger battened down but unabated.

"Oh. I bet he enjoyed telling you how much I was enjoying myself while you were locked up," said Doyle after a moment, wondering what would happen if he tried to sit up.

"He seemed to. Can't you remember then?"

There was an odd note in Bodie's voice that Doyle decided to worry about later.

"Not a lot. It's the first time I've had scrumpy."

"It'll be the last time if I've got anything to do with it. I can't say I'm enjoying this much. If I'd wanted to play doctors and nurses I would have bought myself a thermometer and plastic apron."

An unsteady vertical by this time, Doyle gazed at him for a moment but decided against making any reply, even to the underlying statement of ownership.

Concentrating on repacking the boot, his movements more forceful than was necessary, Bodie slammed the lid shut, then stared at his partner for what seemed like forever. But all he said was, "If you think you've finally shot your bolt, we'd better get a move on. The Old Man sounded less than thrilled when I spoke to him and he was expecting us back about four. We're going to be late," he added pointedly.

"Tell him the traffic was bad." Doyle sank on to the passenger seat with fragile care, leaning his head back against much needed support. He heard Bodie slide in next to him, wincing at the slam of the door.

"I feel 'orrible," he mumbled.

Staring at a face that was the colour of wet cement, the lank hair and a body that was smelling less than sweet, Bodie believed him. He resisted the impulse to reach out. For all his air of vulnerability, Ray was as strong as an ox.

"No more than you deserve. You do look rough," he conceded flippantly. "Even your mother would be hard pressed to love you now."

She never had at the best of times, but Bodie couldn't know that. It was like sitting next to a stranger. Worse. And he still had Cowley to face

Unutterably depressed, Doyle closed his eyes. "Wake me up when we get there, will you?" he requested, without opening his eyes.

Giving a grunt of acknowledgment, Bodie drove on, ignoring the limp figure at his side as best he could.

Apart from several more stops for Doyle's system to convince itself that it was empty, the remainder of the journey was conducted with speed and an icy disdain on Bodie's part; Doyle eventually fell asleep.

By the time they drew up in the CI5 car park, it was early evening. Having recovered enough to appreciate the extent of his disgrace, Doyle was still puzzling over the exact nature of his offence. The cock-up with Ralston didn't begin to explain it, but Bodie's monosyllabic replies and drawn-browed scowl, deterred him from pursuing the point.

Cowley proved to be caught up in a meeting. Leaving a message with Betty, they sought refuge in the rest room. Bodie immediately purloined the evening paper, to all intents and purposes engrossed in it while he sipped his tea. Disinclined to trust his abused system with anything exotic, Doyle made do with CI5 water, alternating his gaze between the fly-blown window and what little he could see of his partner.

He had a well-shaped head, did Bodie, his cropped hair a cleverer cut than it might seem at first glance. But the severe profile was too familiar for objective study, Doyle distracted by the down sweep of lashes, the tiny lines at eye and mouth, the smooth movement of the throat when Bodie drained the last of his tea. He was hungry for the taste and feel of Bodie, the familiar reassurance of meeting blue eyes and needing to say nothing.

It had been Bodie's casual suggestion that had got them into bed together in the first place—a simple throwaway suggestion, worded as a dare, a novelty that had proved to be self-perpetuating. But each time continued to seem like the first.

Sooner or later Bodie was going to tire of the novelty - and him. What was he going to do then?

With a savage sound of impatience Bodie crumpled the beaker he had been cradling in one hand, tossing the broken remains into the waste bin.

His eyes on the discarded plastic Doyle was in the mood to find that instant discard symbolic - Bodie knowing his own mind and acting on it, any doubts thereafter well-hidden and not for the sharing. His entire adult life had been geared to variety, both at work and at play. Bodie, for all his surface sociability, was solitary by choice.

Perhaps that was what this was all about; perhaps Bodie was ready to move on again.

"You're looking very grim. What's up? You going to puke again?"

Caught in the abiding blue of the eyes fixed on him, unsmiling and unreachable, Doyle shook his head, unable to think of anything to say.

It was far too late to mention some of the things he should have said in the beginning, except he hadn't known then, hadn't expected to fall in love, for chrissake.

Curiosity had taken him into Bodie's bed - that and his inability to resist the challenge put to him.

As Bodie said, they were good together. Why shouldn't they find out how far that extended?

They'd been more than good together.

Oh, very poetic, Doyle. So Bodie was a good fuck. That explained the success of the first time. So why had he gone back again and again, hungry for more? They had already passed the test they had set themselves.

Doyle had never done more than wonder, vaguely, about the attractions of gay sex, with no temptation to pursue the half-stirred interest. Until Bodie, his eyes hooded, mouth curled in assured belief of his own superiority, had invited him into his bed.

That's right, Doyle thought, with sudden self-dislike, blame it all on him. You weren't exactly backward in taking up the offer, it must have taken you all of two seconds.

And then he touched me, Bodie igniting every secret place and need.

Sod gay sex. He'd taken to his partner's brand of it like an addict to the needle, high on Bodie.

There were worse addictions.

Maybe. But it would have been simpler if he had remembered that sex was the only thing on offer, Bodie's shields not for the breaching.

For all that, he had learnt that gay sex was no novelty for Bodie. There'd been no explanation or reminiscences, only the dizzying sweep of a practised mouth. The knowledge had cast him adrift from all he thought he knew of Bodie, accompanied as it was by a fierce envy of those other partners. Bodie had shown him that much about himself.

Not that it was going to do him any good. All the signs were pointing to the fact that Bodie was tiring of the experiment. Time to come back down to earth, cold turkey looming.

And he was going to have to accept it. He had to pretend nothing had changed or he risked losing everything.

Fourteen days separation had been enough to show him it was a loss which would strip him of everything,. Life without Bodie as a part of it was something he did not want to contemplate. Would he be given any choice?

"Ray. Oy, Doyle. Wake up, the Old Man's ready for us."

A hand shook his arm and was withdrawn the moment he looked up.

"Right. Bodie, hang on a minute," Doyle said quickly, before he could change his mind.

Impatient to be gone, Bodie stood framed in the doorway. "What is it?"

"Come back to my place tonight?"

That casual wording was how it always began. Tonight, if he said what he should have said in the beginning, might see the end of it.

Bodie's face tightened. "I'd love to, mate, but I don't think Sylvia would like it."

"Sylvia?" repeated Doyle, stupid with shock. Who the hell was Sylvia, apart from some bird in a poem?

"Yeah, Sylvia." There was nothing of the poet in Bodie's manner, just a deadly courtesy as he waited to hear his partner out.

"Tomorrow then?" asked Doyle, persevering.

"You mean - ?" Covering his surprise, Bodie nodded with an obvious lack of enthusiasm. "Yeah. OK . Tomorrow."

Doyle stared after the retreating figure before he thought to, follow him.

It had begun then.

But why shouldn't it? He didn't have anything very different to offer, nothing Bodie was liable to want to keep anyway.

Finding himself inside Cowley's office and under the older man's severe eye, Doyle was forced to concentrate.

Wasting no time on preliminaries about a job well done, Cowley homed in on Doyle the moment he appeared in the doorway. He was three minutes into a pithy lecture on the evils of drink, an irony which Doyle was sure he would appreciate at a future date, when the telephone rang. Even when he picked up the receiver, Cowley's inimical glare continued to pin Doyle to the carpet in front of his desk.

"Cowley. I've already - Very well, put the Inspector through. Yes, good evening. I'm - He's with me now."

With a sinking heart Doyle realized it must be Ralston and waited, fatalistically, for the blow to fall.

"He did what?"

Swept by an icy gaze, Doyle became all too aware of his less than prepossessing appearance; he resisted the urge to fidget. Only two people had the power to do this to him: Cowley and Bodie.

"Of all the irresponsible - Aye, I should hope you have. The consequences could have been a damn sight more than uncomfortable. Do you know what it was he administered? I see. That late? I commend their staying power if not their sense - No. He is your concern."

Frowning, Cowley spared Doyle a brief, flickering glance. "Civil action? That will be for Doyle to decide. He is, after all, the injured party."

All attention now, Doyle stared at the balding head in front of him and felt rather than saw Bodie, who until now had seemed oblivious to the vehement, one-sided conversation, suddenly stir. Refusing to turn, Doyle felt himself caught between two very different blue glares.

"I'll pass them on to him. So you say. I don't happen to find that an acceptable excuse. Yes. Goodnight." The receiver replaced, Cowley sat back in his chair and studied Doyle for a moment

"Sit down," he said testily, as if there had been no interruption. "I understand you have been - er - unwell today?"

"The way he's been throwing up I'd begun to wonder if he was pregnant," said Bodie before Doyle could say a word.

"Hmm. Do you need to see a doctor?"

Doyle's denial clashed with his partner's affirmative.

"Thank you, 3.7, when I want your opinion I'll be sure to ask for it. Doyle, you'll see McLaren before you leave the building. You look terrible," Cowley added frankly, having taken his first unbiased look at the man in front of him. "Are you sure you're all right?"

Aggrieved because apart from a certain tenderness in his gut and a headache he felt fine, Doyle gave the older man a look of decided suspicion. Enquiries from Cowley about your health usually heralded an undesirable and possibly terminal assignment.

"I'm fine now," he said without gratitude. "Why shouldn't I be?"

"Because apparently your last drink, at approximately 5.15 this morning, was spiked with an emetic. Remiss of you not to notice it being done," Cowley added with scant sympathy.

"An - ? Oh. Why would anyone - ?" Doyle's voice faded.

Gordon, he thought with certainty, remembering the searching, satisfied look he had received on the steps of the station. Gordon had turned up at the party when they had been on the point of leaving and pressed a glass into his hand. In the interests of peace Doyle had taken a couple of sips. Just as well he hadn't finished it by the sounds of things.

"Who did it?"

Alerted by the tight note of anger in his partner's voice, Doyle glanced incuriously across at him, wondering why Bodie was so uptight. That was his role and maybe he would get around to it when he had the energy to spare. At the moment it didn't seem particularly important. Gordon had just scuppered his career and he was about to lose Bodie.

"A PC Gordon, who apparently felt he had a score to settle with Doyle. However, this morning he made the mistake of boasting about what he had done to a Sergeant Paris," said Cowley, peering through his spectacles at a note he had scribbled on the pad beside the telephone.

"Harris," corrected Doyle absently. "Oh well, at least I know it wasn't the cider." He subsided under Cowley's glare and waited with resignation for the lecture to continue.

"The irresponsible bastard could have killed you!"

"Bodie, that will do. PC Gordon is Inspector Ralston's concern and will be dealt with through the appropriate disciplinary channels. Doyle, are you likely to pursue the incident in a civil action?"

He was almost tempted to say yes just for the expression on Cowley's face but restrained the impulse.

"No, sir." For all Gordon's character defects the fault had been partially his own. He'd given Gordon a lot of stick and he wasn't equipped to do anything but hold a grudge.

"Aye, I've no doubt you did offer some provocation," snapped Cowley, reading Doyle's expression with ease, "if anything Ralston had to say about your behaviour was correct. Juvenile doesn't begin to describe it, does it, 4.5?"

"No, sir." Doyle made no attempt to defend himself. In retrospect, irresistible temptation and boredom weren't much of an excuse.

"It's about time you learnt to put a guard on that tongue of yours. Right, you'll go straight to McLaren for a check up, then home. If he gives you a clean bill of health you can meet me here at three tomorrow afternoon."

"Bodie - Bodie, are you listening to me?" Cowley demanded, acidly unamused.

"Yes, sir."

It was such a patent untruth that Doyle swallowed his sudden grin, his own expression one of bland attentiveness.

"I'm glad to hear it. I'll see you at the same time. Meanwhile, occupy yourself with preparing a full report of the operation. It's time you learnt to deal with your own paperwork. I'll want it to take with us tomorrow afternoon. Clear?"

Belatedly realising that he, too, had in effect been given the day off, Bodie's frown eased.

"Yes, sir, but what about PC - ?"

"For the second time, you can leave Gordon for his superiors to deal with. That's all, gentlemen. Except that I expect to see you both shaved at the least when we hand back responsibility for Straten 4 to its proper place. Doyle, if you possess a tie, wear it. Around your neck," Cowley anticipated wearily.

Once outside the door, Doyle found his arm taken in a firm grip.

"You're going the wrong way. The quicker you see McLaren, the quicker you'll get away."

Out of patience with the solicitude and his partner's abrupt mood changes, Doyle shrugged free.

"I'm going, all right? I'll see you tomorrow."

It was only two flights of stairs later that he realised Bodie was still at his side.

"You'll be late for Sylvia," he said snidely.

"She'll keep," Bodie's confidence was monumental.

"Lucky Sylvia," said Doyle bitterly.

 

 

"Constitution of an ox," announced McLaren. His fingers prodded tender stomach muscles a final time with the sadism typical of doctors. "All right, that's it. You'll live. Take two of these tonight, two more tomorrow morning and drink plenty of water. How's the headache?"

"How did you know I've got a - ? All right," said Doyle ungraciously as he bundled back into his clothes, all too conscious of the brooding gaze boring into his back.

"If it persists let me know."

"Oh, he will," Bodie promised from where he leant against the door, his seemingly lazy gaze missing nothing.

"That reminds me, what the hell happened to medical confidentiality?" demanded Doyle, abandoning his aggressive stance as he bent to lace up his trainers.

"I beg your pardon?" asked McLaren blankly.

"Him," snapped Doyle, with a jerk of his head in Bodie's direction. "I thought everyone was entitled to a bit of privacy."

McLaren's shrewd gaze moved between the two, very different men. "They are, but I was led to believe that wherever 4.5 went, 3.7 was bound to follow, and vice versa. Close the door on your way out," he added blandly.

It was Bodie's foot which prevented the door from slamming, his head reappearing a moment later. "You'd better give me those tablets," he suggested. "I'll make sure he takes 'em."

Smiling faintly in return, McLaren tossed the sealed envelope over to him.

It took Bodie all his time to keep up with his suddenly rejuvenated partner, Doyle taking the stairs as though Baron was at his heels.

"Hold up," he said, catching hold of Doyle's arm. "It's no race. Come on, I'll give you a lift."

"I'm quite capable of driving myself home."

Meeting the belligerent light gaze that dared him to say more, Bodie pulled a wry face. "Yeah, you're feeling better all right. Shut up, I'm giving you a lift."

Doyle's scowl deepened. "Do what the hell you like," he snapped, having had enough for the day. He stalked out into the car park, pointedly waiting for Bodie to arrive and unlock the car.

"What the hell did you say to upset Gordon enough for him to audition for the Borgias?" inquired Bodie, once they had left the car park well behind them.

Doyle huddled a little deeper into his jacket collar. "Nothing special. He's the sort that can't see beyond their last grudge."

"That reminds me of someone not two feet from here," remarked Bodie dryly, signalling left and waiting for a break in the traffic.

"Thanks." His eyes closed, Doyle willed himself not to react.

"But the fact remains he could have killed you."

Hearing the unfamiliar note returned to Bodie's voice, Doyle opened his eyes. "Yeah, well try not to sound too disappointed. Better luck next time."

Bodie's hand tightened on the wheel and he took the next turning too wide and too fast.

"That's not very funny, Doyle." The car jerked to a standstill, the handbrake wrenched on with force enough to rock the vehicle.

Doyle seemed to consider it. "No. I suppose it isn't. My sense of humour must be slipping." Looking out into a familiar side street, he opened the door. "I'll see you tomorrow."

It was not until he stood on the pavement that Doyle realised where they were. "This is your place."

"Well done. Come on up,. I want to talk to you."

A stubborn set to his face, Doyle remained where he was. "About what?"

The effect was lost because Bodie had already vanished inside the front door. It took Doyle two flights of stairs to catch up with him.

"What about Sylvia?" he demanded.

The key in the lock, Bodie half turned. "Who?"

"Sylvia, that's who." Though why the hell he should worry -

"There never was any Sylvia," snapped Bodie, avoiding his partner's eyes as he pushed open the door.

"There never was - "

"Do you have to repeat every fucking thing I say?"

Doyle closed the front door by the simple expedient of leaning back against it. "Why?"

Bodie disappeared down the hallway. "Why what?"

"Why did you lie about having a date tonight?" Doyle pursed. Oddly calm as he watched his partner's strategic retreat, Doyle discovered he was smiling at nothing at all. The day had improved out of all recognition.

"Work it out for yourself. I'm going to have a drink and something to eat. You'd better get some water inside of you."

Doyle drained the brimming glass thrust at him, then set it down. Propped in the kitchen doorway, hands in his jacket pockets, he listened to cupboard doors banging, watching the stubborn set of Bodie's shoulders and the uncommunicative profile. They needed to talk all right, but perhaps now wasn't the moment.

"All right if I have a shower and clean up while you eat?" he asked mildly. He noticed Bodie relax even before he finished speaking.

"Sure. Help yourself to anything you need," said Bodie, as though Doyle hadn't been doing that without thought for the last four years. "There's a couple of your shirts and a clean pair of jeans in the - wardrobe," finished Bodie lamely, remembering how they came to have been left there.

Doyle had already drifted away, the sound of pattering water moments later betraying his whereabouts, but on this occasion there was no accompaniment of a husky voice. Usually, Doyle's propensity for singing in the shower drove Bodie mad. He would have welcomed the sound now.

Absently, he prepared and took a bite from a cheese sandwich, managed to burn his lip on scalding tea. He threw his unfinished meal away a few minutes later.

Fourteen days of wondering what the hell would happen next. Fourteen days of long days and longer nights, of missing Doyle. And for so many stupid bloody reasons.

The operation over, his first thought had been that now they could go home. Ralston had successfully taken the gilt off that but by this morning his temper had cooled. Wanting only to be with Doyle, he'd been able to see the funny side. PC Gordon had brought him his lunch; sly, unlovely and brimming with malice, Gordon had lingered to regale him with the highlights of the previous night's revels, Doyle taking the starring role. Naturally. But it would have meant nothing, until Gordon mentioned the girl.

Ray had always had a soft spot for redheads.

He had no right to be so dog-in-the-mangerish. They hadn't made each other any promises; they'd been very careful to make no commitment. No nothing, in fact.

But it had hurt, so bloody much, betrayal lancing through him.

He should have known it had been too good to last; nothing ever did. But he could think of nothing that had mattered this much to him.

So what could he do about holding it together?

Doyle was Doyle, and if he needed variety, needed more than Bodie could give him, Bodie knew he had two choices - to accept Doyle's need for variety, and to roam with him as they had done in the past, or to pack it in and pretend this had never been intended as more than a few nights' experimentation with a good mate.

Some choice, Bodie admitted, grim-faced, his anger overtaken by the depressing knowledge that it wouldn't - couldn't - work like that, not in the long run. It was the first time he had ever thought of a relationship in anything but terms of days and weeks, but he accepted that he couldn't imagine a life where Doyle wasn't an integral part of his existence.

Finding himself standing in the bedroom, Bodie removed his jacket and holster, automatically hanging them in the wardrobe before he went to draw the curtains.

Ten o'clock and all's well.

What the hell was he going to say to Doyle, he wondered with near desperation.

"I've been looking for you," remarked a familiar voice from behind him.

Turning from his contemplation of the drawn curtains, Bodie just stared, unconscious of the betraying softening of his expression or the hungry longing his eyes betrayed.

Doyle, scrubbed, changed and smelling of all things sweet, stood in front of him, still damp around the edges. He looked very much as usual, except for the tension lines corrugating his forehead.

"Your hair's still wet," remarked Bodie inconsequentially. He rubbed a strand gently between his fingers, the everyday scents of soap and shampoo taking on a heady, intoxicating aroma where they had been warmed by Doyle's skin.

Fourteen days.

And then it was the same as always, passion overtaking the necessity for speech. They were safer without it.

Fierce and hungry, Bodie found his need met and complemented and was conscious of an inner triumph. This was how it should be. There wasn't anything else, and if there was, he didn't need it.

The coolness of cotton beneath him, Doyle's gaze cleared for long enough to recognise the expression in the hot, devouring gaze. Suddenly chilled, he averted his head from the seeking mouth and caught and restrained the deft hands that had already stripped him.

"No," he said, with a flat lack of emphasis.

It was enough.

Incredulous, Bodie stared at him, his own face flushed with sexual heat, anger and something Doyle was wary of giving name.

"What the hell do you mean, 'no'? It's a bit late to go coy on me now, isn't it, Doyle? Or has the novelty worn off?" He knew he could assert his need, win through. But at what cost? Always, until now, they had been united, together in this as in all else, battling for dominance in a battle that was no battle, aggression leashed, channelled into something very different.

Doyle did not use sex as a weapon, and Bodie could not, not in this time and place and never with Ray.

So.

Shaking with need and humiliation Bodie moved until he was sitting on the edge of the bed, trying to regain a semblance of calm. Naked and still stubbornly erect, he fumbled clumsily with the sheet, bunching the soft cotton between his fingers.

Ironic that this was one scene he couldn't run out on, not in his bed in his own flat.

And not from Ray.

He did not feel the mattress dip and sway, flinching with surprise when wiry arms encircled him, drawing him back against the naked warmth of Ray Doyle.

"What the hell d'you think you're playing at?" he snarled, hands clenching over the sheet.

"No, don't turn around. Not for a moment, eh? I've got something I need to say first."

Subdued, and oddly hesitant, the voice did not sound like the Doyle he knew.

"Goodbye would be quickest," snapped Bodie.

He felt ludicrous, his body continuing to betray his true feelings. His skin prickling with a bittersweet awareness, he tried to close out the myriad sensations assaulting his senses - the soft brush of body hair, the scrape of a nipple, and the press of semi-erect flesh. But more than these heady sensations, beneath the soap, shampoo and toothpaste was the glorious, familiar scent of him.

Bodie's eyes scrunched shut.

"Ah, Bodie, you great pillock. That's not what I meant. Not at all," sighed Doyle, his forehead drooping down to rest on the support offered by a broad shoulder.

"Then what the hell is there to talk about?" Bodie demanded with a pugnacity that was ruined by the tremor in his voice.

Hearing that note of near-defeat, Doyle surrendered, tugging him close with a soft, resigned sigh. His chin propped on Bodie's shoulder, fingers gentling the tension he could feel beneath the smooth skin, he stared out into the room, seeing very little.

"Nothing, sunshine. Nothing at all."

When Bodie, understanding none of this, remained still and silent, a long-fingered hand tweaked the hardening nub of a nipple.

"Come on then. We may as well get on with what we came here for," Doyle whispered, nuzzling the nape of the strong neck and struck by how vulnerable it looked.

This time he made no attempt to restrain Bodie as he was tumbled onto the mattress.

While Doyle's mouth smiled, and made him welcome, there was a fleeting expression in the green eyes that held Bodie back, his palm resting against a flawed cheekbone, fingers laced in damp curls.

"What is it? Are you feeling ill again?" It was all he could think of.

"Nah."

Doyle's nose wrinkled engagingly in reassurance just before he drew the dark head down to him, wrapping himself around the gloriously familiar heat and hardness that was Bodie. His hands busy, he thrust up with a fervent need to bury thoughts and hopes in the one realm where they had always been able to communicate. It would have to be enough.

It was Bodie who gentled him, drawing away a little, his heavy-lidded appraisal missing nothing of the residual sadness, only now realising what Doyle had - perhaps - wanted to say, before he had given up, relegating his own needs to those of his partner's.

"Not so fast. There's been enough fucking around. Tonight, let's make love tonight," he murmured but he gave Doyle no chance to reply, wary of the casually voiced cruelty which Ray used to protect himself.

Bending, Bodie applied the touches which he was still learning pleased the most. Employing his hands, mouth, tongue and teeth, he created a web of sensation, locking Doyle in its centre. And when he finally drew all the taut-drawn urgency into his mouth, needing to do this for his mate with a fierceness that once would have frightened him, Doyle cried out, his fingers clenched over bowed shoulders.

It was an old skill, more than half-forgotten, given new meaning now by the tiny whimpers of pleasure he could elicit with mouth and busy hands, Doyle's fingers kneading his shoulders in unconscious rhythm. But by then Bodie was caught in the web of his own devising, so that when Doyle, with a lingering, throaty cry, delivered himself totally to his partner's care, Bodie scarcely heard him. Heat stinging the back of his throat, his every touch was concentrated on pleasing as he took the essence of Ray Doyle into himself.

His pulse thundering in his ears, cheek resting against now lax warmth, Bodie was late to recognise his own heavy-limbed languor. One hand possessively curled around a muscled flank, he smiled, his lashes sweeping downwards.

Inquiring fingers sifted through his hair, caressed his cheek, smoothing away the dampness at the temples.

"Was the sweetest time ever. Bodie?"

"Mmm. In a minute." Satiated and relaxed, he knew they would have to talk but was intent on postponing the moment.

A hand kneaded his shoulder again, gentle now over the crimson imprint of clutching fingers. "It's never been like this before, not in all the times and ways we've - " The drowsy, drugged flow was interrupted.

"Nine," mumbled Bodie, in the interest of accuracy. "This is the ninth time."

He felt rather than heard the intake of breath, the slow exhalation.

"Are you sure it's only nine?" Doyle's query was hesitant, cautious even.

"Going to bed with you isn't something I've come to take for granted. This is the ninth time," said Bodie categorically, his nose buried in salty, passion-slick skin.

"Maybe we don't need to talk at that," muttered Doyle obscurely, taking Bodie's face between his hands and kissing him very gently before releasing him. His look of serenity changed to one of almost comical dismay. "You took me so high. What about you, eh? Lemme - "

His voice trailed away, fingers discovering the cool stickiness trailing down his calf at the same time he saw the half-abashed, half-amused look in the blue eyes smiling at him.

"Oh." His finger sliding down his leg, Doyle licked the moistened pad clean again, his expression intent before he gave Bodie's beginning to haze eyes a look of severity. "There's no need to look so smug. It's bloody wasteful that is. You save it for me next time." Rubbing Bodie's arm absent-mindedly, just for the pleasure of the contact, he added, "Why did you lie about having a date tonight?"

Bodie gave a guilty twitch. "Wouldn't you rather have a nap right now, get your strength up?"

His face still tinted with a rosy, sexual heat, Doyle's expression was one of amused tolerance. "Hope personified, that's you. No, I wouldn't. I know you didn't just say it to make me jealous."

"How?"

"Because you're not that petty. You don't play those kind of games, not with anyone. It's OK, sunshine," he added in reassurance. "Don't start twitching. I'm not gonna start giving you a character reference. But we'll have to talk some time. Why not now?"

"I don't see what there is to talk about," Bodie said defensively, knowing he was lying. "Come on then," he added a few beats later.

"Just like that, huh? All right. All this," Doyle waved a vague hand at their bodies, "started off as a joke, didn't it? An experiment?"

"No. Yes. I dunno," said Bodie, his inner confusion mirrored on his face. "No. Not on my part, anyway. Look, we didn't make each other any promises. We left ourselves free to do whatever we wanted. I know that. But I didn't expect you to - "

He stopped abruptly, changing tack. "I invented Sylvia to give myself some time to think— and to cool down."

The hand on his raised knee squeezed it gently, remaining there.

"I'm sorry about your night in the nick. I did try, mate, but Ralston wasn't having any of it."

"What? Oh, that was nothing," dismissed Bodie. "No, it was stupid because I can't blame you. She sounded a real cracker, that redhead."

Doyle stared at him. "What redhead?"

"C'mon, Ray. I heard all about you and her. It started off with an impromptu strip and went on from there."

"What the hell - ? Oh."

Having expected guilt, Bodie scowled on seeing Doyle's encompassing, reminiscent grin.

"Where d'you hear about that? Gordon, I presume?" Sensing from Bodie's withdrawal, that this was somehow important to him, Doyle sobered, fast. "Poor old Gordon, trying to wind you up by telling you what you were missing. I'm glad he'll never know how close to successful he came. It was a stag night, mate. The only bird there was one of those stripper telegrams. She wasn't even very good at it, but I s'pose you could call her a redhead. Dyed though," he added absently.

"Stripper telegram?" repeated Bodie stupidly.

"Yeah, you know. Some bird gets paid to take her clothes off and hands you - Just checking," Doyle said plaintively. He took the ensuing clout around the ear with resigned fortitude.

"So you and she - That's all there was to it?"

"Listen, mate, quite apart from the fact I haven't fancied anyone but you for the last few months, I was too bloody pissed. Besides, you'd have had to be desperate to fancy her. It was cruel really, sending her out."

"So how did you come to strip?"

Doyle frowned as he tried to remember. "I can't swear to this because most of the evening's a bit of a blur, but I know she took a lot of stick. Past her prime she was. Anyway, after a few drinks someone bet that none of us could do a better job."

"So you did," said Bodie with conviction, wishing fiercely he had been there.

Concentrating, Doyle wrinkled his brow. "Think I must 'ave. When I woke up this morning I found my pockets stuffed full of money, so it was either that, or I robbed a bank. We were well-oiled by that time. Late on, it was," he added, by way of extenuation. "That must have been when Gordon came in on the scene, I s'pose, though I thought we'd packed her off in a cab before then."

"I've made a right prat of myself," said Bodie miserably. "Came on like Attila the Hun. Rich that, because I haven't got any rights of possession. No rights at all."

"No, you're wrong there. You just didn't stop to see what you had got," Doyle told him. Sliding to lie on his back again, he stared up at the ceiling. "I missed you something rotten these last three weeks. Not just the sex," he added, so there should be no doubt. "You."

"I've got used to having you around," Bodie admitted, looking everywhere but at the man at his side.

Doyle's hand encircled his wrist, took him in a loose clasp before the grip changed, linking their fingers. Lifting their joined hands, he absently kissed the back of Bodie's knuckles, then pulled a sheepish face.

"I wanted to do that this morning, in the car."

"Why didn't you?" Instinct tightened Bodie's grip.

"Like you said, I didn't have the right. It hasn't been like that between us and I wasn't sure how you'd react, what you wanted."

"You could have asked," Bodie pointed out carefully, trying to ignore the happiness creeping up on him, wary of believing what he was being told.

"So could you," snapped Doyle, freeing his hand and sitting up. "Instead, you came on all broody and possessive. You might have given me the benefit of the doubt." Hugging his knees, his chin propped on them, he sat scowling into middle space.

"I probably would have done. But I'm so biassed I didn't see how anyone could turn you down." Almost tentatively Bodie reached out, his fingers threading through the floppy curls at the nape of Doyle's neck.

Doyle gave a gusting sigh. "I know. I was scared too," he admitted.

He turned then, staring directly into Bodie's eyes, his own expression completely unguarded. "Live with me, Bodie?"

His partner's close-lidded face told him nothing. While he watched, the dark lashes rose, drenching him in the rich blue of Bodie's eyes; their expression was one he had never thought to see.

When he spoke, Bodie sounded no more than bored.

"You mean the whole bit: commitment, trust - "

" - love, honour and ignore everything I say? Yeah. I must be mad," Doyle conceded gravely, his eyes serene, smiling now.

Bodie stared at him for a long moment. With Doyle there would be no half measures; he knew that much, knew what he was being offered.

"It's not likely to be a bed of roses," he warned, his arm reaching out to draw Doyle close and finding himself held unexpectedly at bay.

"No?"

Bodie placed a gentle finger to the deepening crease down one cheek. "No. But then neither of us have ever gone for the simple option. Yeah, all right. We can give it a whirl."

Doyle was unfazed by that deliberately prosaic acceptance. His smile deepened. Slinging his arm around Bodie's shoulders, he said, "Well that's all right then."

"Is that it? No burst of joy or anything?" But Bodie's mouth was stubbornly twitching into a smile.

"For now," Doyle told him serenely. "Give you an inch and you take a mile. I'll give you that tomorrow."

Relaxed and content within the circle of Doyle's arm, Bodie's smile refused to be quenched.

"I've got news for you, sweetheart," he murmured. "An inch will do."

 

THE END

**Author's Note:**

> Written October 1984
> 
> Reprinted in ‘HG Collected 1'


End file.
